


Miss Green's Garden

by VermeilH20



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, Batman: The Animated Series, DCU, DCU (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Victorian, F/F, F/M, Gen, Gothic, Maybe steampunk idk, Victorian
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-27
Updated: 2019-01-06
Packaged: 2019-06-16 22:36:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 3,682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15447348
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VermeilH20/pseuds/VermeilH20
Summary: Ivy Isley Green is a reclusive woman who lives in a mansion where a death occurred many years ago. She keeps to her house and garden, trying not to listen to the whispers of the other folk living in Gotham Town. Harley Quinzel is a psychotherapist forced to go on the run when a psychotic inmate at the asylum where she works takes a disturbing interest in her. She arrives in Gotham on a rainy night, looking for shelter, and is taken in by Ivy.Two women, running from two traumatic pasts, finding friendship and maybe something more...(With a bonafide somewhat-friendly neighborhood "Bat-man" and a psycho creeper with green hair who does not know when to quit. How did his hair turn green before hair dye was invented? Keep reading to find out!)





	1. It was a dark and stormy night...

Lightning flashed over Poisonwood Hall, periodically illuminating the darkened atrium at its center. In it, a man was busily at work. His physician’s bag lay open, the instruments spread out over a wooden table alongside bubbling, frothing vials of green liquid. Opposite, there was another table. This one held a body, bound by leather restraints. It did not move.

As rain lashed at the windows, Dr. Woodrue prepared the final syringe. He moved to stand over the table, leering at the prone form on top.

The delight turned to fear, however, when his creation turned to look at him. As lightning lit the room, he truly saw her, the sickly green that infused her once-pink arms, the shock of hair rusted with matted blood. There was something missing from her, no its, eyes, some fundamental human spark. With ease, it snapped the restraints and swung its legs to the ground. As Dr. Woodrue stumbled back, it began to move forward, movements jerky and uncoordinated, like an newborn child. Suddenly, he felt the table pressing into his back. With the creature almost upon him, there was nowhere he could run.

He watched in horrified disgust as it reached a hand out to his chest. Even through the linen, he could feel it, cold and bloodless. With a shriek of disgust, he flung the flaccid hand from his body, “Begone with you!” He screamed. In the weak light, it looked like a corpse come to life, reaching out to drag him into the netherworld. He could see lightning reflected in its gaze. But nothing else. “Foul demon!”

In his haste, he knocked over the wooden table. Vials and beakers shattered on the floor. The labels lay among the glass. Digitoxin, Oleandrin, Aconitine, Coniine.  
Urushiol.

He clawed desperately at the floor, hands searching among the scattered instruments as his eyes stayed on the monster. It was almost upon him, when, with a cry of triumph, he swung his hand forward. A glinting scalpel arced through the air and plunged into the chest of the creature towering over him. With a guttural cry, it fell back, green fingers grasping at the protruding handle. With a hiss of pain, it yanked the blade out.

Woodrue stared, aghast at the thick green liquid spurting from the open wound. He whimpered when the tissue knotted itself back together, growing back as if it had never been split. What horror stood before him, this unholy amalgamation of human and horticulture!

He had exulted too soon. For when he had knocked over the table, the candle had fallen amidst the wreckage of vials and beakers. A steady stream of fluid had been flowing towards the flame, and at that very moment, they came into contact.

His screams were drowned out by the explosion.


	2. Local Gossips

Tales of Woodrue’s Monster were common in the valley. The tales grew wilder and wilder over time, detailing exactly what sordid affairs must have gone on in the manor on the hill. Being so far from Fleet Street, they resorted to spinning lurid yarns that would have put any penny-dreadful publisher to shame. “The monster shambled out of the laboratory, naked as the night it was born!” was a common opener.

There was also much speculation about the young woman who had shown up to claim the property. Dressed in a rich emerald gown, her face demurely veiled, she had been able to provide the solicitor with sufficient intimate detail to be considered next of kin. Variations on her dress, her hair, her religion and her past were the most frequent topics of conversation. Less common but no less colorful were speculations about the Poisonwood fortune, and the young woman’s eligibility.

“She lives alone in that rambling house, dyes her hair and never comes to church. Besides which she has the mad doctor’s blood. I should say that she is highly ineligible.” declared Miss Taia Algul at her weekly tea.

“Not even the Scots or Irish have hair that color. She must have hennaed it.” Lady San, who knew about these kinds of things, proclaimed authoritatively.

“Do you think she is from the East?” Miss Seline Kyle asked. Having never left the Gotham Valley, she only knew what stories she had been able to glean from Lady San's prodigious library.

“That would explain why she doesn’t come to church.” Taia huffed. “The doctor was not a religious man, but I believe that she would have no reason not to. How...”

“But if she truly is the doctor’s kin, mightn’t it be that she has a touch of madness about her, too?” Seline thought the idea of a local madwoman was deliciously titillating. The valley was so boring.

“You read too many of those cheap romances.” said her cousin, prissily. “I think she probably feels it would be very forward to show up, being that she is living in sin.” Not that Taia or her cousin were strangers to it, themselves. But it is always easier to point it out in others than ourselves.

“Well, if she insists on dyeing her hair red as the devil, she can go to hell.” Lady San's eyes suddenly took on a sharp look. “Of course, we would be remiss in our duties if we did not at least make an effort to invite her into society.”

“Oh, yes! She probably feels lonely, poor thing.” The pity in Seline's voice was belied by the excitement in her eyes.

"Our patronage would certainly make it easier for her. It must be difficult being a young woman alone, in a strange place." Taia smirked into her teacup.

"Besides, it would be an excellent opportunity to see the inside of the manor. No one has set foot in it since the doctor lived there, and we must make sure she has proper accommodations." Seline's enthusiastic expression was tempered by a cool calculation.

“Then it is settled. We’ll take a casserole and bit of pie over on Friday and invite her to church.” Lady San said finally. The rest of the afternoon dissolved in planning.

That Thursday, however, they had something new to whisper about.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Foes, Friends or Frenenemies? The plot thickens as other denizens decide to involve themselves in Ivy's affairs.
> 
> Next chapter is Harley's!


	3. A voice in the night...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we meet Harleen Quinzel, disgraced American doctor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the delay! I wanted to get this up on Friday, but I had a physics test yesterday and I have been so busy studying for it!

“Would you like some pudding?”

“No!” Harleen screeched so loud people from nearby tables looked over. “I’m so sorry, you startled me.” She put on a winning smile. With her bright blond hair and blue eyes, she was the very picture of innocence. Of course, it was hard to look innocent when you were a woman travelling alone. Especially one with a very thick, very New York accent. She self-consciously smoothed down her slightly rumpled skirts. There was no way to smooth the tiredness from her expression, though.

The waitress looked at her with a bit of concern. Harleen didn’t miss the way her eyes dwelled on the suitcase propped against the table. “Are you sure? It’s apple pie. Fresh from the oven.”

“I’m sure. Thank you.” she called cheerily after the woman. Sighing, she slumped back in the chair. A half-eaten bowl of soup sat on the table in front of her. It was getting cold, but Dr. Harleen Quinzel didn’t think she could stomach any more. Her mother had always told her there was nothing better than warm soup for an upset stomach. Her mother had told her a lot of things.

Pushing the bowl away, she began to consider her options. She had to be insane, running away like that. Her fingers clenched as she recalled fleeing the asylum, cramming a suitcase with assorted clothes and cash before buying the first steamer ticket to Europe. It was no good trying to resettle, J had people across all forty-odd states in his pocket. So she had left the god-forsaken country.

Besides, she had always wanted to see London.

The city had been unimpressive. She hadn’t much liked the smoke and noise in New York, and London was little better. Even worse, her accent and travelling status made her a target for unwanted attentions. A small smile flitted across her face at the thought of her last assailant and his now three-fingered hand. 

Of course, the violence had made it necessary she leave, fast. She had overhead people mention that the little towns east of the city were charming, quiet places and had decided that a bit of peace and quiet was what she needed. So, once again, she had gone up to a ticket seller to purchase her ride away from trouble.

Now, though, money was starting to get tight. She needed to find employment soon. But no one would hire a disgraced lady physician, that too a “loony doctor”. She should probably drop her title, too, if she really wanted to carve out a new life for herself.

Leaving a tip bigger than she could probably afford at the moment, Harleen grabbed her suitcase and left. She tried to be as little noticed as possible, and the outburst had not helped matters. Slipping out the doors, she took a deep breath. The cool night air was refreshing.

With one last look at the warm lights in the inn windows, Harleen kept on walking. Maybe she would find work in the next town. 

_If not, there was always thievery._ A familiar voice whispered in her mind. _Wouldn’t it be easier? You could consider it payback for their stares and whispers. It would wipe the condescension right off their smug British faces if the strange woman with the strange accent robbed them at gunpoint. You’re getting rusty, my dear…_

“No!” Harley shouted into the night. “Leave me alone!” Tears began to stream down her face, leaving trails in her face powder. She couldn’t escape him, even halfway across the world.


	4. Fresh Meat

The carriage ride was blightedly bumpy.

"Curse these unpaved roads!" Lady San gritted her teeth as the wheels hit another pothole. "You would think that the Woodrue woman would do something about them, now that she lives here. Someone could die!"

"Did you hear about the girl?" Selene flipped open her black lace fan as she fished for information.

"Yes, poor thing." Lady San's voice held everything but pity. "All alone." She tsked. "An American too."

"Apparently, the Woodrue woman's carriage nearly knocked her over. Damien said that there were some words exchanged, then the stranger got into the carriage and they swept off into the night." Taia shook her head. "The boy has a wild imagination, but he wouldn't lie."

"I don't know why Ras lets your brother run around like that. No one respectable should be wandering the streets that late, especially the future Lord of Lazareth Manor." Lady San said disapprovingly.

"Father reasons it would be less trouble to let him than try and keep him on the grounds. Besides, he picks the locks."

"I wonder where he learned that from." Lady San's eyes narrowed. "Wayne is a bad influence. I don't trust any man who smiles like that. They are usually hiding something."

"No protests, Selene?" Taia said viciously. "You aren't going to let Lady San cast aspersions on your suitor, are you?"

"I can't deny the truth." Selene said smoothly, her lips curved. "Mr. Wayne is a bad influence at times, but you would know better than me." She smirked into her fan as Taia turned a brilliant red. Whether it was from embarrassment or anger, however, she didn't know.

"Girls, stop this petty arguing. It is unbecoming. What will the Woodrue woman think?"

"She will probably be terribly insulted that we don't know her name." Selene quipped, prompting scowls from the other two. "Well, do either of you know her name?"

The silences from the other two left her feeling very smug, indeed. "It's Ivy. Miss Ivy Green."

"What a strange name." Taia wondered.

"It fits her." Lady Sen sniffed as the carriage pulled to a stop. "She wears a mourning veil, but green instead of black. Strange is the least you could use to describe her."

They disembarked, turning to face the imposing exterior. It was the end of autumn, and a brisk chill hung in the air. The overgrown weeds had yet to be trimmed, and vines were curling across the stone walls. It looked to be in a state of near ruin.

A lgiht breeze whispered across their necks, making the three women shiver.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I felt bad about the delay, so here is another chapter. Enjoy!


	5. A midnight encounter

Ivy hesitated outside the door, hand poised to knock. Thinking better of it, she moved away and retreated back into her study. Her mind went over the events of the previous night.

She had been riding home from Bruce Wayne’s office. The man had his finger in so many pies, and she suspected he knew more about her situation than he let on. They had been tying up the paperwork that would transfer the property to her name. Her fingers tightened at the memory of his gaze. There was something dangerous about that man, for all his flippant smiles. The plants in his house spoke of buried secrets.

Ivy forced herself to loosen her grip on the reins, not wanting to hurt the horse. It was hearsay, a young woman steering her own coach, but Ivy had not wanted to hire local staff. She was doing just fine with her manservant cum research assistant, one of the few decent people she had had the pleasure of encountering. Darshan had been her colleague at university, before deciding to accept her offer of employment. Woodrue’s fortune was proving a better source of funding than the most connected of patrons, and Ivy gave him the leisure for his other, less scientific pursuits. As he had so flippantly put it, she had given him a better offer than “being some pompous peer’s pet scientist”. Neither of them bothered to voice the fact that his coloring meant her was unlikely to get a position, either here or back home. He was also the only living person who knew her secret.

Besides, she liked riding. There were few things that rivaled the feeling of wind rushing against your limbs, and in the foggy British climes, she needed all the sunlight she could get.

Today, the ever-present fog precipitated rain. Ivy squinted as a few drops of water splattered on her lace gloves, then groaned as the heavens opened up above her. Even as she urged her horse faster, the initial drizzle gave way to thick torrential sheets of water. She could barely make out the road a few feet in front of her. Five more miles to the manor.

A crack of lightning sparked overhead, throwing the road into stark relief. A loud scream echoed in the wake of the thunder as Ivy’s horse reared up, threatening to unseat her. “Down girl!” Her green fingers yanked sharply, bringing the black mare back down on all fours. As another flash of lightning split the sky, Ivy could make out a figure standing in front of her.

The bedraggled woman looked more angry than terrified, her red dress and blond curls in ruins. “What do you mean, nearly running me over like that?” She was indignant. “Just because I’m not some hoity-toity with a carriage of my own doesn’t mean I deserve to be made into roadkill!”

“My apologies.” Ivy looked at her askance. Of all the strange things…

She probably shouldn’t be too surprised. Like attracts like.

“A lot of good your apologies are going to do me.” The blonde sniffed. The rain had all but obliterated her makeup. In the tattered red dress and ruined makeup, she looked almost clownish. A very menacing clown.

“Where are you going? Perhaps I could offer you a ride.” It was the least she could do, after almost trampling the poor woman. Thank goodness the horse had stopped in time.

The other woman laughed, sounding gleeful despite the fact that she was standing in an inch of mud. “Where am I going? No idea. And unnless you can offer me a ride to the next place willing to hire a single American female who looks like she got put through the wringer, I doubt you’ll be of much help to me.”

There was something about this woman that intrigued Ivy. The Green seemed to agree. At any rate, she didn’t appear to pose a threat. “I might know a place.”

The surprise wiped the laughter right off her face. “Really? You’re not pulling my leg?” Her expression turned skeptical. “You’re not one of those whorehouse ladies, are you? What do they call them, Madams? ‘Cause I’ll have you know, this All-American goodness isn’t for sale. I’m desperate, but not that desperate. Yet.”

“Not at all.” Ivy couldn’t help be a little annoyed. She considered herself fashionable. “I am in need of a housekeeper.”

“Well, I guess I could be of some use. I’m a dab hand with a broom.” The other woman grinned up at her through the rain. “The name’s Harl…Harley. Harley Quinn. Pleased to meet you, Miss.”

“Well, Miss Quinn, why don’t you make yourself comfortable in the carriage. We should be arriving at Woodrue Manor shortly. Unless, of course, you want to walk the rest of the way.” Ivy’s lips twitched at the blonde’s cynicism.

“No, thank you.” The other woman deftly hauled herself and her battered suitcase in, then shut the door. In moments, they were off.

When they had gotten back, Darshan had been there to receive them. He had been worried about Ivy getting caught in the rain and had a warm fire going. To his credit, the pink-haired man had barely batted an eye when Ivy had dragged Harley in and deposited her in one of the sitting room chairs. With a quick glance, the other two retreated to the kitchens.

“So, who’s that?”

“Her name’s Harley Quinn. She’s an American and I am thinking about hiring her as my housekeeper.”

Darshan looked wounded. “I like to think I do a decent job taking care of things around here.”

Ivy looked at him. “You spend at least fifty percent of your waking hours over at the theatre or the cabaret, when you are not in the lab.”

He ran a hand through his pink tufts, traces of a lab accident gone wrong. Not as wrong as Ivy’s, but enough that his hair had permanently changed color. “Can’t argue with the truth. But take care she isn’t an axe murderer or something. I know you don’t like it when people make snap judgements, but you have to admit no American woman would be running around bucolic Britain by herself without a secret or two.”

“I know.” Ivy exhaled. “But the Green thinks she’s fine, and it gets lonely here, you know? I’d like another girl to talk to. And maybe if she has secrets of her own, she’ll be less likely to go poking around in ours.”

“Agreed. Now off to bed with you. You look like a drowned plant.” He grinned when Ivy scowled. “I’ll give her something to eat and a rundown of what she’ll be expected to do, then put her in the red room.” He shooed Ivy upstairs with a flask of water.

“We’ll all be better in the morning.”

***  
It was late morning now, and Ivy still hadn’t seen Harley. Well, she usually left the people business to Darshan, anyway. Sighing, she began to re-draft the design for her latest distillatory apparatus. There had to be some way to isolate different compounds with similar boiling points…

The doorbell rang, a loud chime echoing through the cavernous interior of the manor. Ivy groaned. She had completely forgotten she had a social call today. Some blasted busybodies. Who were they again?

“Lady San and the Misses Algul and Kyle here to see you.” Darshan’s eyes twinkled at Ivy’s expression. “You’d better hurry before they tear the sitting room apart with their cutting comments.”

“That was not one of your best phrases.” Ivy told him, sweeping out of the study. Still, she was smiling. She was going to need all the buoying she could get for this encounter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, here is the requisite Jane Eyre chapter. A lot of gothic and Victorian literature can be really racist and condescending towards brown people, and has the dull super-warrior indian manservant, so I thought I would play with that, you know? Btw, Darshan is from Poison Ivy: Cycle of Life and Death, which is one of my favorite Poison Ivy solo series.
> 
> I like to think of them as an odd trio. A half-plant lady scientist, a brown performance-loving scientist and an American lady doctor forming this little found family in the wilds of England.
> 
> Anyway, comments and kudos always appreciated:)


	6. Dresses

Harley woke up to sunlight streaming through the gauzy curtains. She hadn’t realized it in the dark, but the walls and carpet of the room were painted a deep red that seemed to ripple in the light. It looked like she was in center of pulsing heart.

Dashing the sleep from her eyes at the washbasin, she quickly dug through her suitcase for a suitable dress. She wanted to make a good impression on the strange woman who had taken her in. Unfortunately, the only piece even remotely unscathed was a black and red baize concoction that Harley was thought was a bit too overdone for casual daytime wear, even if this was Europe.

On her way down, she remembered what Ivy said about hiring her a housekeeper, and decided to take the back stairs.

Darshan took one look at her outfit and spat his tea out. “What is that?”.

Harley scowled. “You try hiking across England with a single suitcase. I don’t have any decent clothes to wear.”

“Well, I can’t let you go looking like that. Isley’s got company over. Come with me.” Darshan gestured over his shoulder. “I think she’s got some old castoffs in the lab.”

“Who keeps nice clothes in a laboratory. I’d’ve thought you kept stuff you don’t mind getting ruined there?” Harley was intrigued.

“Isley does. She doesn’t give a damn for “fripperies”. The woman uses perfectly good gowns as scrap cloth when they go out of fashion. Better than throwing them out, but worse than donating them. Which I have repeatedly implored upon her to do. Here.” He opened a chest in the corner and drew out three dresses. “Ignore the ones on top, she’s already cut them up. You can have the rest.”

Harley’s eyes were immediately drawn to a simply cut black one with red ribbing. “I’ll put on this one now.” She gathered the bundle into her arms, “Thanks, mister.”

“No worries.” He had a nice smile, Harley thought. Her eyes were drawn to the pink fluff on his head.

“If you don’t mind my asking, what’s with the hair?”

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, so I know, I have a tone of other open fics, but I am struck by inspiration and honestly, this ship deserves a decent gothic au. Let me know what you think in the comments - they are always appreciated!
> 
> Updates on irregularly, but I'm trying to do at least one a week, now.


End file.
